


About Change

by CarnivalOfRust



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Romantic Friendship, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnivalOfRust/pseuds/CarnivalOfRust
Summary: The team faces a new challenge.





	About Change

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on Tumblr as well, so feel free to comment there as well if you feel like it (Username: goats-guts-and-glory).
> 
> This is dedicated to the amazing adomaenia (@ericdiers on Tumblr) who gave me the final push to write some Rakidric. Since I´m currently overwhelmed by Croatia nt feelings anyway, this will serve to soothe my frayed mind.

Contrary to what some people might expect, Luka Modrić is not shy, but he does tend to let others speak and spring into action first. He likes to sit back and observe people rant and rave and create in a splash of blinding creativity and, when all is said and done, he puts his own two cents into the mix. Those two cents often end up tipping the scale, and he is content watching events unfold while he plucks his strings from the half-shadows of his luminous colleagues. Shyness, though, never features in his considerations, because there is a lot to do and he does not have the time to let hesitation run his business.

Still, he feels a hint of discomfort when every pair of eyes in his vicinity swivels into his direction. He may not be shy, but the concentrated amount of attention tugs at a primal instinct that tells him to run and hide. He suppresses his first instinct and lets the second do the talking for him.

“We could do with some change” he reminds Zlatko whose sceptical expression does not quite hold the same amount of incredulity as the others´.

“I say we go for it” Domo interjects, always the first to support an idea if it sounds improbable enough.

“Are you crazy? Wait, scratch that. You are crazy” Mario responds, and while he does not sound particularly angry, there is a line between his brows that should be enough of a warning sign to anyone with a speck of rationality. “I´m not doing it.”

“What? I happen to think it´s a great idea” Domo tells him, proving that he does not affiliate himself with the common-sense type of people. Mario steps towards him before Zlatko clears his throat. The two players subside, though not before Mandžukić cracks his knuckles with every sign of pleasure, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.

“Change, you say?” asks Zlatko when Mario and Vida have returned to their respectable positions within their loose circle. The whole team is present, awaiting their training session, and Luka wonders whether he should have kept his proposition to himself until Dalić was available on his own. It was too late now, and Luka returned his coach´s mild frown unflinchingly.

“Yes. We need to be more adaptable. I think it´s worth a shot.”

Zlatko sighs and looks around. “I´m not convinced, and if it was anyone else… Alright, I´ll put this up for a vote. Who thinks we should give Luka´s… _unconventional_ idea a try?”

Luka does not need to count the hands that inch up at a snail´s pace to know that over half of his team does so in his support. He is grateful, and he notices with a twinge of pleasure that Ivan is among the first. The Barcelona player nods at him, and he turns to Zlatko with the kind of neutral mask that hides smug contentment beneath its thin veneer.

“Very well” Dalić concedes and closes the notebook in his hands carefully. “In that case, I leave today´s training in your capable hands. I´ll step in if I deem it necessary.” He slowly ambles towards the edge of the pitch, head shaking imperceptibly, but all in all he is taking the usurpation with more grace than Luka could possibly have expected from him. Pushing the surge of gratitude towards his coach aside, Luka starts mentally cataloguing each and everyone of his colleagues according to his training regime and almost forgets that the others are waiting for instructions.

Dejan finally has pity on him, kicking his heel in an unmistakable demand for attention, and Luka starts, broken out of his concentration.

“So, uh, yes” he says eloquently. “I thought we´d start with sorting you into your respective categories, and then we´ll go from there. Sounds good?”

His colleagues nod assent with various degrees of enthusiasm, and Luka indicates three different spots on the dried-out pitch.

“Strikers, midfielders, defenders. Okay? I´ll call your name and you´ll go to the spot I point to, alright?”

“What about goalies?” Šime pipes up, ever observant.

“We only need two, there´s no need to choose a spot. I can remember two goalkeepers” Luka points out and promptly reveals his choices. “Mario, Dejan, you´re up. Get some gloves from Suba or Dominik, I don´t care.” He knows he sounds dismissive, he even plays it up because he knows Mario will be upon him in a second if he shows so much as a single moment of insecurity.

Dejan seems happy enough with his new position, and Mario submits to his fate with some reluctance, which leaves Luka struggling to place the rest of his teammates. He had not thought quite that far when the idea came to him that morning on his way to the training grounds.

“Uh, Šime-… Šime, you´ll be on striker duty. Domo, you as well.” The tall blond defender whoops, and suddenly Luka wishes he could take it back, because if Domo and Mario actually end up in different teams, there will be plenty of opportunities for them to clash in the most unpredictable ways and Luka already sees the grass flecked with blood and teeth. “Just-… take it easy, okay?” he tries to soothe his exuberant colleague. “We are trying to learn from it, nothing more.” He gives Rakitić a surreptitious wave, and his midfield partner nods, joining Domo at the strikers´ spot. Glad that at least _someone_ had his back, Luka turns towards the rest.

“Now-…”

“Can I play midfield?” Tin interrupts him and then snaps his mouth shut shyly, and Luka does not have the heart to deny the boy his wish. He nods, and the defender shuffles off, followed by some of his teammates who found themselves at the other end of Luka´s commanding index finger.

“-… and Vedran. That leaves us with… Hm. Dani, are you alright with defence?” Subašić nods, setting himself in motion.

He manages to get his remaining teammates appointed and divided into two teams. They amount to nineteen players, but before Luka can grab the whistle off Zlatko´s impatient hands to nominate himself for the position of referee, his coach throws the tiny noise maker towards Mateo. “Someone else can play the peacemaker for once” the older man waggles his finger, “and you´ll have the chance to test your method for yourself.”

The man has a point, Luka admits silently as he jogs back to his teammates who are by now arguing about who goes on which side. “I can´t do left” Domo complains, manfully ignoring Mario´s shout of “You can´t do right, either ”.

“I´ll go left, then” Raketa offers, and Luka just about catches the glance the Barcelona midfielder (turned striker) throws in his direction. This is happening more frequently, and Luka suppresses the ridiculous urge to raise his thumbs encouragingly. The man does not need his approval at every take and turn he makes.

 

 

They stumble through the first minutes of game play, more anxious about not running into each other than keeping hold of the ball. Luka has half a mind to make the part of the pitch they have marked as the playing field bigger, but when he grabs the first plastic cone Šime snatches it out of his hands, declaring that they will not be defeated by a lack of space. By that time, Domo and Danijel have actually collided, Josip has somehow managed to dispossess his own midfield companions – twice – and Marko has yet to stop apologising to Vedran whose foot he almost turned to flatbread in an attempt to kick the ball away.

They are nervous, especially the younger players, and their insecurities manifest themselves in the way they all seem to suddenly have forgotten the first principles of ball control. Luka motions towards Mateo who has been looking awfully hounded over the past minutes, rushing all over the place to try and keep the chaos to a minimum. His fellow Real player blows into the whistle instantly, and everyone collapses in relief.

“This is not quite what I was expecting” Luka tells them, frowning when Perišić mutters something derogatory under his breath. “Come on, guys, this is the same pitch” he stomps a foot onto the ground in demonstration, “you have the same teammates, the same opponents.” His arm paints a wide circle into the air, and Luka fights to keep his face neutral when the squad follows the motion in mechanical unison. “Forget about your position for a moment. Not you, Mario” he stops the cantankerous striker who has begun tearing at the Velcro strips of his gloves.

“I don´t get it” Andrej sulks, raising his arms in frustration, “what´s this supposed to prove? Are we supposed to become more versatile and shit? This is never going to work, because I hate to break it to you, but we can´t all be perfect.” _Like you_ , echoes in his words, but there is nothing complimentary about it.

“Hey” Rakitić says sharply, “if you´ve got the breath to complain about it, you´re fit enough to try again. We´ve been going at it for, what, ten minutes? What´s with that attitude, man?”

“I was just saying-…” Andrej tries to defend himself, but Ivan cuts him off ruthlessly. “You were being a little shit. Stop whining and start trying.” The Hoffenheim player glares at him but seems to realise that this is a battle he has been losing before it began. Ivan shrugs, his ruffled feathers smoothing down as he motions towards Luka who needs to blink twice before picking up the thread.

“This is not about versatility, at least not entirely. We work well together, but there´s still room for improvement.”

“How can we improve by doing something that we never do, fail to do while we´re doing it and likely will never do again?” Vedran inquires slowly, holding up a soothing hand when Rakitić bristles with rekindled annoyance. “It´s a valid question.”

“It is,” Luka nods at him, “you have to see it this way. When we play, there are always going to be a million choices for each of you. You know what you´ll probably do, and you pick the best available course of action for you. Right?”

Some of his colleagues incline their heads in agreement.

“Now what you don´t have, what you _never_ have is a different perspective. You don´t know what they see, and while we can´t change that, you might, by playing in a position that is new for you, get a feeling for what your teammate might want you to do. Andrej,” the striker furrows his brows when Luka spins his argument, “you know how important it is for a striker to be on the receiving end of a good pass, or a cross that actually finds its target, otherwise you have to deal with the mess. Imagine how much we could all profit from this switch. If you see what your colleague might see in that situation, you might, once we get back to normal, position yourself differently to increase your chances of getting the ball, just as anyone of us playing in midfield would gain a better understanding of how a striker works best.”

The bitter edge to Andrej´s expression has faded, if not completely vanished, but it is not enough for Luka. He wants the others to understand, to be as absorbed by the notion as himself.

“Mandžo, I know you like to make fun of goalkeepers because, and I´m quoting your little speech from last week, ´ _they are lazy bastards who can´t be bothered to run five metres because they never have to_ ´.” Mandžukić shrugs unrepentantly, scowling when his captain narrows his eyes at him. “Now, I won´t pretend that you´ll ever need to act in any goalkeeping capacity, but I want you to take this experience as a challenge, alright? Show the rest of us that you can be more than a badmouthing striker.”

Mario grins dangerously and raises an eyebrow at Domo, thusly missing Luka´s mumbled addition of “ _I won´t waste my time asking for some humility_ ”. The only one who could have heard him is Mateo whose face remains suspiciously blank, in fact, it seems to be carved from wax, which is why Luka glares at him in warning lest he spills something to Mandžukić later. His eyes travel further to land on Ivan who has been staring at him throughout his impromptu speech and who, for some reason Luka does not dare contemplate, hastily turns his head when he catches Luka´s eyes.

But there is no time to think about all the little things because there is a bigger picture at hand. “How about we try again?” Luka commands rather than ask, and to his teams´ credit, they get up instantly, even Andrej who Luka suspects just does not have the best of days and is, therefore, understandably miserable about thrown into the cold waters of this unexpected training scenario just like that.

 

Something else Luka Modrić does not associate with himself is defeatism. He watches as his comrades continue to make fools of themselves, but he shakes his head when he spies Mateo reaching for his whistle with a questioning look towards him after Ante and Šime go down in a tangle of limbs. They climb to their feet wordlessly, and Luka balks at the not-quite-smile that worms its way into Šime´s rueful expression, as if he can´t quite believe his own inaptitude.

But it seems like practise pays off after all, because after maybe half an hour they are starting to actually string together coherent sequences of touch-and-go football that lead, after many failed attempts and frustratingly close calls, to the first goal. With a touch of anxiety but immeasurably more pride, Luka looks on as Domo´s teammates pile on top of him. He cannot remember the last time they celebrated quite like this, and it makes his heart ache to see them cheering so genuinely, unflinchingly, because he knows their next match (he does not want to call it a ´real´ one because this is as real as it gets) will be met by judging eyes and towering expectations. This moment, however, he savours, and he almost misses Ivan brushing his shoulder in a consolatory gesture that he did not know he had needed until it is gone and the tingling sensation lingers, crawling through his arm and shoulder.

“Well done” he calls out when the excitement has somewhat died down, “two out of three?” Mateo initiates the kick-off, and just a few minutes later Luka barely dares to believe his eyes when Tin delivers a beautiful cross to Milan who guides the ball into the net as if he had never done anything else in his life. The equaliser serves to rattle even the last sceptic out of their stupor, and now the game is truly on.

Another thing he did not expect is the deep satisfaction taking hold of him when he manages to head the ball out for a clearance twice in a row and Mario, springing up from where he was plastered to the ground in pre-emptive defeat, roars in triumph, holding up his hand for a high-five. Luka stretches to slap the offered palm. It is a feeling he never knew he missed until he experiences it again, the rush of exceeding expectations. After all his years in the business, that the only thing that people tend to notice about his performance on the field is when he fails to live up to his usual standard.

As a team, they are all setting a new standard now, and the game spirals into a convoluted mess of altercations. Everyone wants in on the action, and Mateo is about to throw a fit because his teammates have long since decided that his shrill signals are suggestions rather than commands. They make it through anyway, and when Strinić (Ivan, Luka´s mind helpfully supplies, although he has a hard time applying that name to anyone else than the Barcelona midfielder who is yet again playing for the other team) sort of nudges the ball past Dejan with his hip Luka is the first to leap at him, yelling incoherently while the Milan defender stumbles around in happy confusion.

This is what football is supposed to be, Luka thinks as he takes a look around him, and when he spies Ivan´s probing stare directed squarely at him yet again, he feels it is time for the next step.

 

 

“I thought it was dumb” Rakitić says, and Luka sort of looks at him in bafflement until he elaborates, “your idea. Switching positions in training and all. It sounded really dumb.” They are standing in the corridor outside their changing cabin, and while the chaos inside does not seem to exceed the usual level, Luka suggested and Ivan agreed to linger behind for a moment and savour the brief respite.

“Ah.” Luka fails to come up with an adequate reply at first, and he settles for another question instead. “Why did you stick up for it, then?”

Ivan shrugs, leaning back into the wall behind him and drumming his fingers on the monochrome surface. “Once you started to explain it, it made more sense. And I can´t argue with the results, now can I?”

Luka nods, already thinking of the best way to gloat over his team´s victory, but the smug smile that would have accompanied the gesture never reached his face.

“Hang on, you defended the idea _before_ I got even started on my explanation.”

To his credit, Ivan remains steady, although he cannot quite hide his clenching fingers. “Yes.” He wets his lips with a brief flick of his tongue, and Luka thinks of yet another question, except he does not know whether it´s supposed to be said out loud, or if he even wants the answer. But he reminds himself of the uncertainties of earlier, of all their encounters that never were, when he did not speak up, and he knows they cannot avoid this forever.

He opts for the safe version. “Anything I need to know?”

“Like what?” Ivan returns the question almost defensively.

“Just… in general.” _You keep staring at me, and I think you need to tell me something_ , is what Luka does not say, at least he thinks he kept quiet, but he might as well have shouted it into the world because Ivan´s face darkens after a few seconds of tense silence.

“There´s nothing. Forget it.”

“Is what people say when there´s something on their mind” Luka asserts, “spit it out, the day doesn´t get any younger.” When the younger man fails to be shaken from his hesitation, he softens his approach. “Ivan. Tell me. No matter what it is, I promise I won´t judge.”

Apparently, his words tip Ivan over the edge, and Luka does not get another word in before his friend has crossed the distance between them, takes Luka´s face into his hand (and Luka is suddenly very aware of the trembling fingers that rattle his brain almost as the shock at their abrupt closeness) and practically drags him forward, up and against him. He brushes his lips against Luka´s for the briefest of moments before drawing back to search for something in the other´s expression, a warning sign of the storm he expects to face shortly, but Luka´s mouth has gained a life of its own and stretches into the widest smile he remembers producing in a long time, so the Barcelona midfielder seems to take this as encouragement to keep going.

_Oh_ , Luka thinks when Ivan claws a hand into his hair and guides his head firmly to the side to gain better access to Luka´s neck, _so that´s what_

His mind trails off and chooses to focus wholly on Ivan instead, on the way he´s practically attacking his jaw, his cheek, his lips, hands roaming over his body, and Luka´s response would have been equally incensed except he keeps knocking Ivan´s hands aside when he tries to raise his own arms and he has already stepped on the man´s toes twice because he cannot quite reach the other´s face without stepping on his toes and that´s when he loses his balance.

“Stop-…” Luka mumbles against the insisting pressure of Ivan´s lips, “stop for a second.” The Barcelona player complies, having the gall to look sheepish after all of the wonderful things he did just now.

“Don´t look so alarmed” Luka snorts when Ivan actually steps back and raises his hands in awkward defence, as if he was trying to fend off a spooked hedgehog. “So…” he drawls, “are we on the same page here?”

“I don´t know, are we?” Rakitić scratches his head uncertainly, but he seems to slowly realise that Luka is not shouting at him right now, or worse, leaving him behind.

“Come on”, Luka says, “there´s got to be a better place to do this. Let´s talk things out, hm? And afterwards…” He smiles, elated at his own audacity, but someone has to take up the reigns now. “We´ll find something else to do.”

Ivan does not give off the impression of someone capable of language at that moment, so Luka has no choice but to grab his arm and gives him a push to get him moving, belatedly remembering to snatch up their bags as well. They will have to sort themselves out eventually, and before that he´ll lead the younger man towards the exit and they´ll make it up as they go in any case, but for now, Ivan´s dazed expression as he follows him is enough.

 

 

* * *

 

Here are the temporary changes to their usual positions for that training session, in case anyone´s wondering:

 

 

**Mateo** (M) – Referee

 

**Mario** (S) – Goalkeeper

**Luka** (M) – Centreback

**Pjaca** (S) – Wingback (right)

**Danijel** (GK)- Wingback (left)

**Tin** (D), **Vedran** (D), **Ante** (S) – Midfielder

**Badelj** (M) – Striker (right)

**Strinic** (D) – Striker (left)

 

**Dejan** (D) – Goalkeeper

**Perisic** (M) – Centreback

**Marcelo** (M) – Wingback (right)

**Dominik** (GK) – Wingback (left)

**Andrej** (S), **Sime** (D), **Pivaric** (D) – Midfielder

**Domo** (D) – Striker (right)

**Rakitic** (M) – Striker (left)


End file.
